For Sara
by Rianne
Summary: GSR in a time of crisis. Just my way of dealing with waiting for season 9!


_**Disclaimer:**__All characters belong to CSI and are not mine - I'm just borrowing them. I promise they will be cared for and fed and watered and returned in pristine condition. BUT until I'm given Season 9 to entertain me, they are mine to play with… as I like…_

_**Author Notes**__: Okay – so I know every writer and her dog is playing with the 'reunion' that we're all on the edges of our seats waiting for… but I have had this idea playing in my head ever since I saw the trailer for 'For Warrick'. I couldn't resist. So this is just a one-shot I dreamed up today. _

_And I am aware that the two major GSR scenes in that trailer aren't necessarily from the same episode. I'm just playing here!_

_I also know that their dog is called Hank… but I just couldn't write that name and not spit – and their dog is just so lovely! Poor beast should have been allowed a better name!_

_So forgive the cliché – and the fact that it's a little different to my previous CSI fare. (and to my wonderful regular readers, don't worry Stars in Motion chapter 13 (eak!) is on its way soon too!!)_

_I hope you all enjoy…_

'_**For Sara'.**_

By Rianne

He was in bed during the dark hours for a change. He couldn't remember the last time he had been, it was wrong that it felt odd to be 'normal'.

Above him the ceiling fan whirred endlessly.

At the foot of the bed his dog snored. Snored and kept watch. Afraid to let her out of his sight just in case she vanished again.

He knew the feeling.

He watched the whirring blades, feeling their breeze against his skin in the disconnected way you feel everything when your body and mind are numb.

The spinning motion, hypnotic, yet not sleep inducing.

She was lying beside him. Head on his shoulder, the line of her body pressed close to his side. Her fingers on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing.

She was warm. Not like the ghostly imaginings he had conjured for so many months.

She came back, just like she had promised. But she'd also promised to never leave…

She's awake. He knows that. She's just letting him be. Letting him think.

Everything is back to how he always wanted it. But somehow it's not.

He never wanted it put into motion like this.

He'd wanted their reunion to be joyful, for her to be healthy, and happy. For her to come back released from her demons as he had when he returned from sabbatical.

Yet that was the dream.

He'd expected the reality of it to be a union fraught with emotion; he had known it was never going to be pain free. Not after all they had been through.

But this, these set of circumstances, were too terrible to even begin to withstand.

This was the third time someone had targeted one of his own. First Nick, then the precious woman in his arms, and now Warrick.

She must have felt his heart rate pick up, felt his breathing change, felt the pain tighten his chest.

She snuggled closer, pressing her lips to his skin. A simple salve, but it felt like a band-aid on a knife wound.

Warrick…

He bit his lip to stop the sob.

Think of something else, quick, before you loose your mind.

Think of her. Think of the woman beside you. Think of Sara.

The world around him had been moving in slow motion as he crossed Las Vegas from the freshest crime scene to the Lab. Everything had been blurring. He was so tired that exhaustion didn't even cut it.

He'd had to give up his shirt to evidence, and his skin had been clammy under the sticky plastic lining of his windbreaker.

The Lab had streamed about him in ripples of colour behind glass walls, as techs and CSI's alike had scrambled at their tasks like gerbils in a scientists maze.

And then she had been there. Standing in his office. Leaning against the desk and before he had chance to even process what he was seeing, she was in his arms.

Warm, tight, safe.

And his heart broke all over again.

Just seeing her face. He was so broken.

And she was broken too, her voice so weak as her tears diluted the sound.

"I got the first flight out."

He'd never heard such resonance in her like that before.

He'd never known he wanted anything so badly until he held her in his arms like that.

Held her and swayed as the pain and relief came crashing down in a mindless tangle.

He had no idea how long it was between that time and taking her home. Time was irrelevant.

And, _was_ she home now?

The car journey had been a quiet one, he drove and she watched him.

He could feel those big eyes studying, gauging, worrying, fearing…

He couldn't watch her, he had to watch the road, but she was all he thought of, it was lucky he drove that route so often he could make the motions on autopilot as that was about all he could manage now.

She was here, back for Warrick, back for him…?

But was it too soon? Was it too late?

Was it going to smash her back months in her recovery?

Had she sacrificed all that for him?

All that hard work she had done emotionally, all the things she had struggled to work out and find peace with. All those hours over the phone telling him things he never thought he would ever hear from her.

And back there in his office today, she had been so open. So vulnerable.

She loved Warrick, and he knew that she loved him, the pain in her eyes, the emotions she allowed herself to show. No longer bottling them up inside her until they blew like a rocket fuse or she slowly died inside.

She was healing, gradually realising and finding herself, little by little she was letting the ghosts rest and escaping them.

Yet, beside him she fidgeted. Fingers twirling and twining, almost wringing.

This was putting her back. Bringing her back to the place where death and violence were an everyday occurrence. Bringing her back like a sacrificial lamb into harms way.

Yet, she seemed calmer. Still. Calm had been one of the waves of sensation he could distinguish from the haze of their office reunion. Calm, fear, love, pain, anger, confusion, relief.

She had always been a restless one. Never able to stand still, but in the months after Natalie and the desert she had been easing rapidly into higher and higher speeds.

And he'd floundered. He'd seen her pain, and not known how to help her. How anyone could have helped her.

He had done the best he could but he couldn't quite take comfort in that.

He'd tried everything, everything to keep her safe, to keep her happy, to remind her of just how much he loved her and how much she meant to him.

He'd even proposed. And really wanted it. Really wanted her to say yes. His beautiful Sara, giggling, smiling, dressed in ridiculous beekeeping gear just to spend time with him.

He'd thought she had been getting better.

Until Hannah West had returned.

And even then after turning away from his concern, and saying she didn't need it, couldn't deal with it right now, she had finally come back to him. Apologised, smiled.

And then left, with nothing but a few heartbreaking lines on a scrap of paper to explain.

He'd carried that precious piece of paper with him for three months. For three months, him, the man who made no commitments to anything bigger than a dog, had been unable to part with it.

With her words. With her.

He'd finally pressed the page decorated with her scrawl into the treasured book of Shakespeare he had lost himself in to find solace.

It had been the hardest thing.

Their actual relationship had changed so suddenly. One moment they had been bickering colleagues, wounded by so many emotional battles, then the next they had given in, and were happily drowning, building a life together, a home, a family.

They had tried so hard, but being a victim's last voice meant that you yourself suffered, and those around you suffered too.

She had always been the stronger. Life had dealt her blows and she had dealt them back with a swift hand and a sure eye.

She had done it. She had stepped back and let him leave and teach in Boston.

She'd not pouted, or yelled, or cried. Not that he had given her a chance too.

She'd let him heal when he needed too. Let him recharge his batteries and he had come back a new man. A clearer man. A man who knew what and who he wanted.

Had she suffered as he had in her absence?

These last few months had wounded him in a way he couldn't even begin to express. To know she was out there and suffering and she didn't want, or need him, to help her through it.

As socially stunted as he was, and he knew he was, he had always thought that that was what couples, was what people who loved one another, did when one of them hurt.

But she was here, again, just when he needed her, right here beside him. Soft to the touch and real. Wonderfully real.

Just how had they got there. How had they got back into the house and the bed?

The day was a heady blur of emotions, a desperate fight to dislodge the images of his friend and the blood and the pain and the fear. He just couldn't think of that and the helplessness and the anger and the confusion.

He had to focus.

He remembered the car.

She had been painfully anxious in the car. Anxious to get back to the place she missed and anxious about her feelings when she got there. He could practically hear her thoughts; she had been thinking them so loud.

She'd called it the only home she'd ever known…

When they had arrived at the house her nervousness had laid a heavy fog about the car's interior.

She had been climbing out of the car almost before the wheels stopped rolling, out into the freedom and space, that nervous energy, returning.

Swinging the door open, watching the expressions vie for room on her face, he had heard the quickening patter of the dog's claws as the beast ventured over to see who was home.

For weeks after she had been gone that dog had raced to the door when he came home, and then he'd felt his own feelings smart when the dog had realised it was only him and not Sara and had slowed his rushed and excited pace and barely acknowledged him. Only later, when Sara had been gone a good while had he returned to his master, placing his chin on his knee in comfort as he had cried. And he had cried.

Yet the beast was a loyal one, he'd never quite given up hope. Dog's were funny that way.

But he'd never seen his act quite the way he did when he saw Sara standing there beside him tonight.

If he hadn't had the foresight to brace her, with a heavy arm about her shoulders, both of them would probably have been thrown backwards into the garden and leapt about on by a tremendously excited forty-pound pooch.

And that wasn't counting the slobber.

Shaking, poor thing was literally shaking with excitement.

But he understood that reaction too.

He had watched her then, unable to take his eyes from her. She, distracted by the dog's desperate bounds for her attention, didn't notice the scrutiny. He had closed the door without looking back, shadowed her steps into the house, the dog close on her heels, dipped with her to the floor as she had submitted to the licking with barely a squirm and a shock of laughter so raw it startled him and the dog.

It was the first sound of happiness inside those four empty walls since she had left.

She was different.

It had been there, seeing her in the real context, in a place where he had once thought her comfortable that made the differences glaring.

She even dressed differently. Gone were the dark shirts, dark jeans, long hair.

She looked softer, was decorated with colour, a light jacket in cream, a red top. And her hair was very different, short, so short the curl was manageable.

She looked younger if that was possible, for he knew she wasn't the early twenties she had been when he had first laid eyes on her. But she was more like that woman in appearance than she was the sad creature who had fled Vegas months before.

She was almost the cute, pony-tailed, slightly hippie Grad student he had met in San Francisco. Almost.

A sight for sore eyes.

When the dog had finally tired, finally quietened. Allowed her to stand again, the silence seemed to sink in.

The strain.

They were both so tired.

He had started to speak, ask her if she was hungry or thirsty, anything to break the silence, but she had thought the same thing and their words had crashed together, tangled and fallen back into silent void between them.

There was no hiding from the distance. He knew she had changed, she had left to change, 'before she self-destructed' but her absence, her absence, it had changed him too.

There was a vacuum between them. A new divide.

How did they behave together now? How did they fit?

There was no way to fall back into the same old routines of home, there was too much time passed, even if the place seemed familiar, seemed comforting, it was also alien to be there together again.

He was worried to let her look at him and really see him. See what her leaving had really done to him. He was frightened that she would see beyond the bravado and façade of his cheery emails and phone calls and see the real hurt and the real anger and the real frustration.

He loved her, he wanted her, no he needed, her to get better. To be happy again, to feel whole and comfortable, but the selfish, lonely soul trapped inside wanted to drag her back to him. Keep her with him. To never let her go again.

He'd been so proud of his willpower. It had been torture to speak to her all those months, to have her so far away, to sleep alone and eat alone and cry alone.

He had worried he hadn't helped her enough, been there enough, put her first enough. Just been enough to help her.

They had talked this to death. Hours and hours, the sounds of her tears wrenching his heart down the phone lines. She didn't blame him. She didn't want him to hurt, but she just couldn't take it any longer, couldn't survive this broken.

She'd never actually said the words, 'it's me, not you.' But she'd meant that. And he had still doubted. It must have been him in some way. That was their pattern, long established and long proven.

But there were no words to express this pain. No words to fix it. No fancy wisdoms from men of great power and knowledge.

No rulebook for when this happened to your life.

Day by day. Each emotion as it came. It seemed that was the only way.

There was so much they needed to talk about. So much to understand and express. So many adventures and mishaps and breakthroughs to relish, applaud, praise and despair over.

Yet now seemed like it wasn't the time.

When she finally met his gaze, her perusal of their home finished when she found the place just as she had left it, her sad eyes were wild and unflinching and he could barely hold back the rush of emotions as he dragged her close again.

In hindsight maybe it hadn't been the smartest idea to manoeuvre her straight back into the bedroom, but with the look in her eyes it was suddenly all he could think of. And she'd gone willingly.

He wanted to be close to her so badly. Needed her. Needed to feel her skin and hear her heart beat. To reaffirm that she was alive, was safe, was really, finally, back with him.

From the moment their lips had met in a heated crash of wet and soft and desire he had known nothing but her.

Her tangy taste, the pillow of her lips, the sensations of heat that shocked down his body as her tongue duelled with his and sent responsive shivers down her spine.

They had struggled backwards, arms flailing, stumbling over the dog who was frantic with the tension crackling in the air.

Poor beast, he'd whined and scratched the door as he had been shut outside the bedroom, but neither of the rooms occupants had cared for the wood or the paintwork right then.

She really was there; he hadn't finally, finally, lost his mind like he'd always feared he might.

Together once more they had separated momentarily. Gazing at each other as they had swayed at the foot of the bed. Panting heavily, as they waited.

His lips still tasted of her. Her lips were swollen and bruising, and sensual.

Then something flicked the switch on again and they were moving, gravitating to one another unable to fight the pull.

She felt amazing in his arms, warm and soft, and the muffled noises of encouragement she echoed into his mouth drove him endlessly forward.

He'd stripped her of her unfamiliar clothes, tossing them to the floor without care, hearing her murmur as the bare skin of her stomach brushed his shirt, and her own soft fingers, smaller than he remembered, had slid up under the back of the shirt he'd dragged from his locker to replace the windbreaker, catching it with her thumbs and tugging it upwards and away, breathlessly breaking their kiss again for its passage.

She'd clung to him, her body seeming to weaken and he thought nothing of lifting her, letting her tangle her long legs about his hips.

Two steps forward and then they'd tumbled backwards in an upward rush of bedcovers and bedspring bounce.

She'd gasped wildly, close to his ear, her breath hot as steam.

But she hadn't slowed; her fingers had already been tugging the buckle on his belt.

Whilst his had parted the front clasp on some pretty underwear he'd never seen before.

He'd slowed as best he could to rediscover her. She was different here too, curvier, healthier, more sensual than ever. Her soft breasts heavier, fuller, but just as sensitive as he'd stroked, teased and made her growl desperately, and fist her fingers into the bedcovers as he'd captured the responsive tip of one in his mouth and taunted it with his lips and tongue.

Loosing the rest of their clothes in a blur he had found himself burying his face in the curve of her neck and howling as she took a firm hold of him and squeezed. The restraint he'd found came from somewhere unknown, but even that didn't hold out long and he'd soon had to brush her fingers away before it was all over before it began.

He'd wanted their first reunion encounter to be romantic, but instead it was frantic and emotional and raw. He had wanted to bury inside her and stay like that forever.

She had cried out at the first intimate brush of his fingers. Her body seeming to have forgotten his touch, yet the sound she made when he filled her was so powerful, mixed with the flood of ache and sensation, he felt the tears come and let them fall.

And the room span, the heat built till it burnt, their skin was damp and slippery and wild.

She had been crying by then too, he had tasted the salt on her lips, and on her cheeks. He had kissed away her tears.

He had murmured to her. Told her he loved her, told her he missed her. Told her to never leave him again.

Yet she had just sobbed harder, tightening the grip of her arms and her thighs around him.

It had built and built and built until it had burst. His explosion feeling like the world was coming down around him as he felt her answering beat.

He had weakened, trembling, feeling the same from her, falling over onto his back he had curled her close, racing hearts beating loud he had waited.

Waited for the satisfying aftershocks of the pleasure to slide into blackness, to pull him into sleep, to let him be, to let him rest, to let him anything.

Oh, oblivion!

But it hadn't come.

His body still felt heavy, his mind still battled.

After a while Sara had slipped away to the bathroom, and he had feared. It was irrational, but he had feared. Feared she was hiding, or panicking, counted the long, long seconds, expecting her never to return.

Hank had slunk in as she had opened the door. Had skulked up to the bed, sniffed, and eyed him sulkily.

But Sara had returned. Had caressed behind the dogs ears. Had looked sleepy and sad as she had slipped back, bare into the bed, curling back up into his warmth. Where she belonged.

She hadn't looked panicked. Just sad. Just bone weary.

The dog had settled down at the bottom of the bed. Clearly refusing to leave her.

But she hadn't spoken.

She'd always liked to curl up and for lack of a better word, snuggle, to talk of her day, and of anything, and everything. But she was quiet.

It was hardly a day to celebrate.

But it was a place to start.

When life burns things to ashes there is only upwards.

And they had more than ashes to work with.

He looked down at her, where she still lay now, blinking sleepily against his shoulder, her hair softly feathering across her cheek.

She was home and it was more than a start.

There was still love, there was still affection. There was even more honesty between them than there had ever been, even if their trust of one another was still slightly dented right now.

He could be cautious, he could be patient. Anything. Anything to get her to stay.

He needed that more than words could say.

Beside him she sighed softly, sliding her fingers up his chest, snuffling her nose against his shoulder.

He captured the hand on his chest. Stilling the motions to squeeze her fingers between his. Holding her fingers to the beat of the heart that held only her.

It was starting.

They could work on this.

Build their lives back up again.

Together.


End file.
